


Swimming Lessons

by Quaxo



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:53:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quaxo/pseuds/Quaxo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s only been at Riverrun a week, the weather dreadfully hot and humid in ways it never was on the Fingers, when they insist that he must go swimming with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swimming Lessons

He’s only been at Riverrun a week, the weather dreadfully hot and humid in ways it never was on the Fingers, when they insist that he must go swimming with them. Lysa had alternately begged, whined, and ordered him to come with them – but Catelyn had invited him and he’d found himself unable to deny the older Tully girl. 

There had just been the small problem that he didn’t know how to swim. The water was bitter cold and salty on the Fingers – it was not water that was entered on a whim, unless getting smashed on the rocks by the waves was your intent. 

The river was different from the sea though, and at this particular bend the current moved at a slower pace and it was deep. The Tullys – Edmure, Catelyn, and Lysa – had all quickly stripped down to their small clothes and jumped in, cavorting in the water as naturally as the carp on their household banner. 

He contents himself with sitting on the bank and watching their games, calling out encouragements or taunts when needed, and begging off any offers to join them in the water. He won’t confess that he can’t swim, his pride won’t allow it. 

“Come in, Petyr! The water’s cool and it’s so dreadfully hot,” Lysa is bobbing in the waters in front of him, her lips puckering into a pout. Her underclothes of white linen balloon about her, reminding him of the jellyfish that lived in the bay back at the Fingers. 

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed,” He lies, even though his own small clothes are drenched in sweat and stick to him uncomfortably underneath his tunic and breeches.

He would have done well to remember the jellyfish and their grasping tentacles when she’d demanded his assistance getting out of the water. Her damp hand grasped him by the forearm and just as he was getting her onto the shore, she’d arched back and pulled him face-first into the water. 

He panics, limbs flailing, as he tries to keep his head above the water that is pulling him under. Large mouthfuls of water that are supposed to be air spare him the shame of screaming. His vision is a blur of blue-green water, the sky, and the tree branches overhead. He can hear Lysa giggling at his expense – none of these warg fish even realize that he’s drowning…

Then a slender arm locks around his chest and he can feel himself being dragged back ashore, the steady beat of feet below him propelling them against the current. He’s too busy sucking in as much air as he can to even notice the identity of his rescuer. 

Firm hands help him scramble up onto the bank, where he collapses, and it is only when he looks back that he realizes his savior is Catelyn, who breaks away from scolding the now sobbing Lysa to watch him as he struggles to sit up. 

“Are you alright, Petyr,” She asks, concerned for him, her hand coming to rest on top of his leg.

He tries to answer her, but stomach does a queer sort of flip when he meets those blue eyes, and instead of answering he is noisily sick, river water gushing from mouth and down his front, narrowly missing Catelyn, whom he can see is politely trying not to wrinkle her nose in disgust, which only makes the squirming in his stomach worse. 

His misadventure at the river is retold at dinner by Edmure, much to the entertainment of all at the table. He bears the tale, picking at his trout and trying to ignore the laughter. Lysa likes it even less than him, sniffling loudly still, even though she wasn’t the one half-drowned today.

Edmure asks him in jest how it is that he never learned to swim, that every man ought to know how, and his ears burn at the thought of yet another failing being added to his list – too small, too poor –

“I don’t imagine there’s much call for swimming out on the Fingers,” Catelyn intercedes before he has a chance to respond. “It’s too cold. There are probably things Petyr knows that you don’t.”

She says it sweeter than he would have, but it is a rebuke all the same and they all sense it. The chastisement doesn’t last long, because someone mutters something about sheep shit and several of the squires burst into snickers.

He’ll learn to swim – perhaps he can convince Catelyn to show him how.


End file.
